


Wreck of the Day

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-18
Updated: 2006-02-18
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.





	1. Wreck of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


Part One: The Pendulum 

Driving away from the wreck of the day  
And the light's always red in the rear-view  
Desperately close to a coffin of hope  
I'd cheat destiny just to be near you  
If this is giving up, then I'm giving up  
If this is giving up, then I'm giving up giving up  
On love, On love 

London, England 

The grandfather clock across the room holds her eye for nearly a minute. She watches the pendulum swing, back and forth, shielded by the narrow glass door. With each swing, another lifetime passes her by. It started out merely as seconds passing her by. The seconds turned into moments, the moments into hours, the hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, years into lifetimes. Each swing took away yet another minuscule piece of her fading youth. She inhales deeply, as if trying to draw those lost lifetimes back in, close to her, then exhales, finally alleviating her denial and letting them go, as much as it pains her to do so. 

“Dr. Bartlet.”

His voice is gruff, yet strangely soothing. It is foreign to her reverie of faded youth and lifetimes lost, thus it startles her. She allows her wandering eyes to lose their fascination with the swinging pendulum and drift until they meet his own gray, melancholy orbs. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, though ironically he doesn’t sound the least bit curious. 

“I’m trying to hypnotize myself,” she replies, her raised eyebrow indicating her sarcasm. 

“You like the grandfather clock, huh?” 

“I like the pendulum.” 

He balances his pen over his currently unsullied and unwritten upon pad of paper, in anticipation of her answer to his potential question. 

“But not the rest of the clock?” 

She shrugs, dismissively. This conversation disinterests her greatly. Her time is better spent observing every movement of the pendulum. 

“I haven’t seen the rest of the clock yet.” 

He turns his head, gazing behind his broad shoulder at the grandfather clock. When he returns his attention to her, he sees that she has already lost interest in him and bestowed the honor of her attention on some other random inanimate object in his office. 

“Are you ready to talk now?” He asks, tilting his head in a feeble attempt to catch her eye, and therefore her attention, once more. 

“Sure,” Abbey replies, blandly. 

He nods, pleased with her response, however unenthusiastic. 

“Shall we…cut to the chase, as they say?” 

“Sure,” she says, just as blandly. 

“All right then. Did you try to kill yourself?” 

She looks up; she is surprised by the bluntness of the question. He has her attention now. He has stolen it from her, despite her best efforts to preserve it. 

“What did you say?” 

Her eyes narrow, trying to discern his words, real and important, from the trivial words effervescing in her head, clouding her vision. 

“I said, did you try to kill yourself?” 

“No.” 

Her answer is definitive, her tone unwavering. He believes her, and he doesn’t know why. 

“You didn’t?” 

Ever the psychiatrist, ever doubtful. 

“No.” 

She wants to talk now. She seeks out the unadulterated honesty within her that she could only imagine still existed. 

“I didn’t do it with the intention of ending my life. I was looking for an escape. I wanted to forget.” 

Proof that said honesty existed still. 

“Forget what?” 

Dr. Hewson is not very knowledgable for a doctor, she thinks. 

“It was my thirty-eighth wedding anniversary, Doctor. What do you think?” 

“So you were drowning out thoughts of your marriage with alcohol,” he assumes. 

“Well…yes.” 

He’s right; she won’t deny it. 

“Did it work?” 

“Does it ever?” 

His ears perk up, like a dog’s. He is about to run from her and lunge after an ever elusive frisbee. She waits for him to pounce. 

“You’ve done this before then?” 

There it is, the sudden attack. Now she remembers why she’s never liked psychiatrists much. They assume. Sometimes she thinks it’s their job to assume. And what a sad thing to get paid for. 

“I meant in general.” 

“You avoided my question.” 

She sighs, with irritation. He is not knowledgable, nor perceptive. 

“No. I have not done this before.” 

This woman has peaked his interest, a rare occurance, he knows. She is both knowledgable and perceptive. 

“How often would you say you consume alcohol?” 

A boring question, yes, but a neccesary one. As a doctor, she understands this. 

“Daily.” 

His eyebrows raise in disbelief. She quickly attempts to fix her tainted answer. 

“In small doses, of course.” 

“What do you drink?” 

“Sherry, mostly. You can’t get drunk on sherry,” she says, almost cheerily. 

“So you don’t drink looking to get drunk?” 

“Not usually.” 

He values her honesty, but it stirs up suspicion inside his doubtful body. 

“How about lately?” 

“I suppose.” 

Her answer is vague; it confuses him. 

“Are you drinking more than usual?” 

“Well, I haven’t been drinking sherry!” 

She almost smiles, but the curve of her lips stops before they can part enough to expose her perfectly straight, white teeth. Dr. Hewson is disappointed. She left him hanging, and he doesn’t want to fall. 

“You’ve been drinking the hard liquor.” 

Again with the assumptions; they make her uncomfortable. She wants out. 

“Harder than sherry!” Is her feeble response. 

“Dr. Bartlet, do you consider yourself an alcoholic?” 

Ah. This she can answer. This she can answer without hesitation or reservation. 

“No.” 

“Not even now?” 

“Not even now.” 

“Why?” 

Damn these questions. She wants to watch the pendulum. Why this incessant questioning and inquisition? 

“Because I’m not.” 

Abbey doesn’t care what Dr. Hewson thinks. He doesn’t know her. No one does. 

“I don’t have a dependency,” she continues, with conviction now. “I don’t go through withdrawal. I can control myself.” 

“So why didn’t you control yourself on your anniversary?” 

“Because…” 

The answer is simple, though she deems it unacceptable. He won’t believe her, despite her enormous integrity. And yet, she has nothing to lose. 

“Because I didn’t want to.” 

“And yet you say you didn’t want to harm yourself.” 

“I didn’t say that.” She is defensive, her guard is up, the walls surrounding her conscience are rebuilt. “I said I didn’t want to kill myself.” 

“You wanted to hurt yourself.” It is a statement, not a question. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“Dr. Hewson, we’ve been doing this for ten minutes. The answer to that question is at least three sessions from now.” 

Driving away from the wreck of the day  
And I'm thinking 'bout calling on Jesus  
'Cuz love doesnt hurt so I know I'm not falling in love  
I'm just falling to pieces 

And if this is giving up then I'm giving up  
If this is giving up then I'm giving up, giving up  
On love, On love

Maybe I'm not up for being a victim of love  
All my resistance will never be distance enough

Driving away from the wreck of the day  
And it's finally quiet in my head  
Driving alone, finally on my way home to the comfort of my bed  
And if this is giving up, then I'm giving up  
If this is giving up, then I'm giving up, giving up  
On love, On love 


	2. Wreck of the Day 2

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 2: The Weak Word 

There is nothing to distract him. He looks around the room for something to hold his interest and remove him from the situation he is in. But he knows the room too well. For five years he has used it to solve the world’s many problems and scruples. He has planned summits and meetings and even laws in this room. His private study in the Residence. His office away from the office. He should have chosen another room, one he didn’t know quite so well. Then he wouldn’t have to pay attention to the man with the clipboard seated before him. He isn’t fading; he is real. 

The President clears his throat, and the air, ridding it of the awkwardness and silence that had consumed it moments before. 

“Dr. Keyworth says you’re good. The best out there, he says.” 

It is the best ice-breaker he can come up with. Unimpressive for a man of such diplomatic stature. 

“Stanley’s a good friend of mine,” Dr. Adams replies, his eyes burning into his patient’s. 

He sits in the presence of the person who is potentially the most interesting, complicated, and fascinating client he has ever been honored with. If only he would open up, let himself go. He is uptight; clearly unwilling to engage in such a personal practice- the process of picking apart the mind, then putting the puzzle back together. 

“Yeah,” the President says, succinctly. “But you’re a marriage specialist.” 

It is both a question without an answer and a statement without a true purpose. His eyes dart around the room, evasive and restless. Dr. Adams tries to catch his gaze and, in doing so, hold his interest steady. 

“Among others things.” 

Dr. Adams’ declaration is questioning, searching, despite the way it sounds. 

“Like couples’ therapy,” Jed Bartlet says. “But how can you do couples’ therapy with just one half of the couple?” 

A sign of his reluctance and doubt, certainly. Yet also a dead giveaway that his heart is in this session, if not his mind. 

“Desperate times, Mr. President…” 

“Right,” he says, quickly. 

He doesn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. He doesn’t want to know the outcome before it is upon him. 

“So what’s wrong with my marriage, Doc?” 

Dr. Adams studies his patient carefully, searching for the origin of such a question. Surely he wasn’t expecting a direct answer, a solution for all his problems after five minutes of what was, thus far, a very unproductive session. 

“You tell me.” 

Jed flashes his a half-smile, conveying his suspicion and wry sense of humor, all on one charming little smirk. 

“Then what am I paying you for?” 

Dr. Adams nods. He saw that coming. While the President himself is an unpredictable as it gets, his sense of humor is not quite so. 

“Stanley warned me about your sarcasm.” 

Jed sits up straight, to his full height. Which, admittedly, isn’t much for a man of such power and influence over not only his country, but the entire world. Maybe even the universe, if there’s life out there. 

“Then you came prepared.” 

All right, Dr. Adams thinks. Enough of this small talk. It’s time to get to the good stuff, Mr. President. 

“Your wife’s been in therapy. Did you know that?” 

At first, Jed is offended by the question. It seems, to him, challenging and judgmental. 

“Yeah.” 

Dr. Adams is disappointed by the response, yet something compels him to include it in his notes, on his trusty clipboard. 

“Have you spoken to her since her overdose?” 

Jed is almost too embarassed to respond. He remembers the value of truth, all that hogwash about how it sets you free and the like. Maybe it’ll lead him to Abbey. She’s the purpose of these sessions, is she not? 

“No.” 

His answer is terse, definitive, but ultimately very conclusive. For once, Dr. Adams is pleased by his patient’s brevity. 

“I see. How long have you been separated?” 

Dr. Adams knows the answer to this well, yet is anxious to hear it from him. 

“A few weeks.” 

“But she sent you the papers much earlier. Why didn’t you sign them right away?” 

What do you care?’ Jed thinks. ‘Oh, that’s right. For $450 an hour, of course you care. 

“I’m a busy man.” 

Dr. Adams leans back in his chair, eyeing his patient warily. 

“Mr. President, if you want my help, you need to talk to me. Be honest with me. I’m not here to judge you.” 

The hell you’re not. This he thinks, but doesn’t say articulate. He realizes then, that for reasons unbeknownest even to himself, he is fearful of this Dr. Adams character. Dr. Adams is going to know things about him that even he doesn’t know. He’s going to draw conclusions, make inferences, analyze, prod, probe, and in the end, hopefully, present him with a solution. 

All right, Dr. Freud. You help me, I’ll help you. 

“I didn’t sign them because…I don’t know. I was hoping she’d change her mind.” 

Dr. Adams smile; he is pleased. A breakthrough so early. He hadn’t expected it. Remarkable. 

“Why did you finally sign them?” 

“She showed up at Buckingham Palace with another man,” Jed says, as quietly as he can while still being heard. “I had to.” 

“For politican reasons then,” Dr Adams surmises. 

“Yeah.” 

No sense beating around the bush, Dr. Adams thinks. Especially when the bush is supposedly the purpose of this man’s certain need for therapy. 

“Do you love your wife?” 

The President hesitates, glancing around the room in an almost wistful manner. Dr. Adams panics inwardly, worrying that maybe the answer this, such an important, essential question, will be conveyed through sarcasm. 

“Love…” He begins, and then focuses his once wandering eyes on his psychiatrist. “Love is too weak a word for what I feel.” 

Dr. Adams finds it difficult to conceal his pleasure, yet somehow manages to find a way. 

“So you do love her then.” 

“Yeah, I love her.” 

“Even now?” 

Dr. Adams assumes his patient understands what he is trying to express with the word ‘now’; he does. 

“Yes.” 

Dr. Adams nods, jotting a few things down on his notepad. Jed watches his pencil crawl across the paper, wondering which aspects of his life are being now immortalized by that one pencil, on that one lonely piece of paper. 

“What do you love about her?” 

Jed looks up; he is far from ready for such a personal question. He is just learning to open up, feeling out his comfort zone. Instead of hitting upon the untapped emotion, he opts for the easy way out. 

“Right now, not a whole lot.” 

Though it was the truth he spoke, it was far too vague to lead Dr. Adams to any conclusions. 

“She’s hurting you,” Dr. Adams says, hoping this statement will lead him to bigger and better things. 

“Keen observation, Doctor. You’re so wise.” 

The feared sarcasm has come out to wreak havoc upon them once again, but Dr. Adams has intention of allowing it to prevail and through his train off the very specifically laid out tracks. 

“You can’t say it?” 

“Say what?” Jed replies, hoping it isn’t what he thinks. 

“That she’s hurting you.” 

Damn. 

“I can say it!” 

He is defensive and distrustful. Why shouldn’t he able to say it? 

“Go ahead.” 

Frustration overwhelms the President of the United States. Why is this crackpot psychiatrist outlining my weaknesses? Why is he trying to overthrow the throne of my emotions? 

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters. 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m…because it is!” 

His voice is raised, his guard is up. The walls are high and impassable. Dr. Adams has never been one to decline a challenge. He climbs them. 

“You know, admitting that you’re hurting isn’t a sign of weakness.” 

Do you read minds too? Jed wonders, in all his aggravation. 

“I know that!” He exclaims instead. 

“Well then…” 

“All right!” 

His walls crumble at the feet of this intruder who has somehow managed, with almost no effort whatsoever, to ascend them and invade the hallowed kingdom of his brilliant, cryptic mind. 

“She’s hurting me!” 

Dr. Adams does not smile, though he wishes he could. Such progress in so little time could bring a smile to anyone’s face. However, the subject matter keeps him from doing so. Hurt should never garner the praise of a smile. 

“Okay,” Dr. Adams replies, with composure. “Very good. How did you feel when she overdosed?” 

An odd question, Jed thinks. How was he suppoed to feel? Happy? Happy that his wife, one evening, felt destructive enough to drink herself into a comatose state? 

“I was scared as hell! What do you think?!” 

This man confuses Dr. Adams unbelievably. Just one moment ago, admitting hurt was a sign of weakness. Now, he was admitting fear. Fear, typically the most hidden sentiment. 

“Scared of what exactly?” 

“Losing her,” he whispers, after a short, reflective moment plagued by images of his words. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Losing her!” 

“Ah,” Dr Adams says, his pencil scurries furiously across the notepad. “You were afraid she wouldn’t make it?” 

“Yeah.” 

Jed has nothing beyond that to say. Yes, he was afraid. Yes, he wondered for a time if she wouldn’t make it. Yes. Yes. 

“You went to see her in the hospital. Why did you leave before she woke up?” 

“I didn’t want her to know I was there.” 

“Why?” 

He shrugs. The answer is so obviously clear to him, why not Dr. Adams? He forgets for a moment that Dr. Adams has never met his wife, nor does he know the first thing about her. She is the First Lady of the United States, a former doctor, mother of three First Daughters, grandmother of two First Grandchildren, matriach of the First Family, one-time inhabitant of the large and spacious White House, a master of shaking hands and waving to her many desperate admirers, a gracious hostess with a lovely figure often accentuates by extravagant designer gowns, the woman who often stood behind the President, observing him with loving, proud, and watchful eyes. That’s all she was to Dr. Adams, who simply didn’t know any better having never been blessed by the chance to do so. But Jed had been blessed with that chance. He knew. He understood. Well, most of the time. 

“Because it would have made things worse between us,” Jed explains. “I knew she wouldn’t want me to see her like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Weak and helpless,” he says, matter-of-factly. “She’d have been embarassed.” 

“When I spoke to Dr. Hewson, your wife’s psychiatrist, he made it very clear to me that she still loves you. And it’s extremely clear that you’re very much in love with her. So what I need to know is what happened to put you in the position you’re in now. 

Jed sighs, almost smiling. 

“How much time you got?” 


	3. Wreck of the Day 3

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 3: The Thrill 

Washington, D.C. 

The past few days have been highly beneficial. The amount of progress the President is making astounds Dr. Adams. He had the President pegged as a late bloomer when it came to therapy, and he was proved wrong. 

“How would you describe your wife to me, on her best day?” 

Dr. Adams had asked this question to many of his patients, and it had always been a subconscious indicator of their true, underlying feelings about their spouses. Jed considers the question for a moment, trying to decide how best to word his response. It’s not long before he scraps his perfectly fabricated sentence, and speaks candidly, from his heart. 

“On her best day…smart, charming, witty, feisty, passionate, caring, understand, and…breathtakingly beautiful.” 

As honest a response as any; Dr. Adams is satisfied. 

“And on her worst day?” 

“Argumentive. Tempermental, occasionally dense, closed-minded, arbitrary, distant, and breathtakingly beautiful.” 

“So she’s beautiful no matter what?” 

Jed nodded enthusiastically. 

“She’s just as beautiful when she’s dressed to the nines as when she’s just gotten out of bed.” 

Dr. Adams takes note of this to tell his wife someday. 

“Have you told her that?” 

“Many times. You’ve seen her, Doc. The woman is simply stunning. I think she might be even more beautiful now than when I married her, if that’s possible. There is not an unattractive bone in her body,” Jed says. 

The look in his eyes confirms the validity of his words. Dr. Adams is geuinely touched, but he doesn’t let it show. No, on the contrary, he appears aloof, neutral, and completely unaffected. 

“From the way you’ve been talking, it sounds like you’re a good husband. If that’s true, why did your wife you?” 

“I didn’t tell her about the assassination of Abdul Shareef,” Jed replies, sheepishly. 

“The Qumari defense minister?” 

“Yeah.” 

Dr. Adams raises an eyebrow in surprise and disbelief. 

“She didn’t know?” 

“She found out on the news, like everyone else.” 

Well, that was certainly one for the notepad. 

“I see,” Dr. Adams says. “Why didn’t you tell her?” 

“I don’t know.” 

His answer is simple, direct, yet so incredibly vague and distant. It only makes Dr. Adams more determined. 

“Was it a conscious decision? Did you decide you weren’t going to tell her?” 

“I don’t remember, to be honest. I just didn’t.” 

“Maybe you’ll be ready to tell me another time,” Dr. Adams concedes. 

“You don’t believe me?” Jed asks. 

“No, sir, I don’t.” 

** 

London, England 

Dr. Lawrence Hewson’s wife, Ally, considers herself a big fan of Abigail Bartlet’s. She likes to follow American politics and ignore Parliament as much as possible. When her husband informed her that the First Lady of the United States was now one of his patients, naturally it piqued her interest. She went on and on, talking her husband’s ear off for well over an hour, boasting the First Lady’s accomplishments. 

Now, as Dr. Hewson sits before the First Lady, he remembers his wife’s words. He recalls the feats she has achieved and the enthusiastic words that were used to describe her. She hardly seems like she embodies those characteristics now. She is frail, withdrawn, cautious with words, and evasive of his probing questions. She tries her best to be honest, and she is, but her answers always surprise her, as if they were lies. The truth startles her and sends her reeling. She wishes it would abandon her, leave her for dead, and let her lie. Please, just let her lie. Lies are easy. Lies mean nothing. Lies hold no weight with her. Therefore, the truth manifests in her and crawls its way out. 

Dr. Hewson cannot keep his eyes off her. He is fascinated by the way her expressions change at random, without a single word said. She is in her own world, clearly, her thoughts swirling through her head at a pace faster than anything he has known. A few moments before, he had tried to get conversation going by asking her about her marriage. She’d been honest, but painfully vague. Though it made him feel like an inadequate psychiatrist, he found himself aching to hear everything and anything she was kind enough to tell him. Unfortunately, that’s not much. Dr. Hewson, however, has a good mind to change that. 

“Abbey?” 

She looks up, her eyes wide and innocent, unsuspecting. 

“Are you ready to keep talking now?” 

She wants to say no, close her eyes and her ears, and turn her thoughts back on to repeat the swirling motion in her head. 

“Okay.” 

“Good. I think we should continue discussing your marriage, as it’s clearly at the roots of your problems. Is that all right with you?” 

No. 

“Sure.” 

“Now, you said everything changed after a certain event. How would you describe your marriage before your daughter’s kidnapping?” Dr. Hewson questions, ever anxious for the response. 

“Fine, I guess. It was fine.” 

A good enough answer, she guesses. Honest, simple, boring. Dr. Hewson is not impressed. 

“Would you like to expand on that a bit?” 

“Very fine?” She flashes him her most disarming grin, and it almost works. “No, I’m kidding. Um. I don’t know. It was fine.” 

Abbey tries, but for the life of her, she cannot allow a different answer to pass through her lips. Dr. Hewson realizes this, and resorts to his favorite method of pestering inquistion- questions that are pointless to a mere observor, but incredibly vital and meaningful to the one asking them. 

“Communication was good?” 

As much as Abbey desires to be more illustrative, it is still that one, single word that seems to perfectly depicts the circumstances. 

“I’d say it was…well, fine.” 

Luckily, Dr. Hewson knows how to play hardball. And he does it well. 

“How often did you talk?” 

She is quick to respond. 

“In full sentences?” 

“Yes…” 

“Not often,” she says. “It was difficult.” 

“Why was it difficult?” 

She mumbles something inaudible to herself, then glances around the room for distractions. Upon her failure to do so, she returns to the question, albeit reluctantly. 

“It was hard to…get in step with each other. It was like some awful out of sync dance. He’s on a trip, I’m on a trip. He’s in the situation room, or in his study working ‘till one in the morning. If I’m still awake when he comes to bed, I’m more concerned with him getting some sleep than with having a lively conversation.” 

“You didn’t have meals together during the day at all?” Dr. Hewson asks, in a devious plan to further her insight on the subject. 

“Rarely. I always found it a bit degrading having to schedule a lunch with my husband. I had to, essentially, make an appointment.” 

“When you did talk, what did you talk about?” 

“Our children, mostly. Small talk. Or maybe a quick argument about regarding politics. I think most of the conversations we’ve had happened while dressing for dinners and galas and parties. Both of us running around the bedroom, rummaging through drawers and fighting over the bathroom, which doesn’t really leave much room for an intelligent tête-à-tête.” 

This fascinates Dr. Hewson; he cannot get enough. 

“Was it always like that?” 

This time, she almost laughs. He believes it is the first time, an auspicious occasion indeed, that she has laughed, even slightly, in his intimidating presence. 

“Oh, Lord, no.” 

Now she smiles, astounding him, and continues. 

“Communication had never, ever been a problem for us. In fact, I think that was one of the strongest points in our marriage.” 

“Why do you think that’s changed?” 

“No time for talking. Well, not much anyway.” 

“I see,” he says, taking a moment to jott a few observations down on his notepad. “What about the physical aspect of your relationship?” 

“You mean sex?” 

If he had been drinking, he’d have spit the liquid out at that moment. Her candor and bluntness was unparelleled. Most of his patients had to progress through at least twenty sessions before they were comfortable speaking the word ‘sex’ outloud, especially in the presence of a doctor. 

“Yes,” he mumbles, with a gruff clearing of his throat. 

“Somehow we always managed to find time for that,” Abbey replies, wondering herself exactly how and why that came to be. 

Dr. Hewson nods, as if by some stroke of a miracle, he understands her. 

“So you say you had a healthy physical relationship?” 

“Oh, yes.” She pauses, mending her answer. “You know, when we had time.” 

“How often would you say you had intercourse?” 

She looks him in the eye, and it startles him. He looks away from her, almost embarassed. 

“During the Presidency?” 

She is not embarassed. She is perfectly calm, cool, and collected. Talking about intimate things doesn’t phase her in the least. It’s the trivial aspects of her life that boggles her mind. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, when we weren’t away on trips and such, I’d say…once a week. Maybe.” 

Her candor leads him to continue on the same path. He doesn’t want to pass up this opportunity. He is learning things that most people in the United States would kill to know. He shakes his head at the thought and sighs. Americans. 

“How about before the Presidency?” 

“Maybe…three times a week.” 

“That’s a big difference,” Dr. Hewson observes. 

“I suppose.” 

“Did that bother you?” 

“Not really. What I missed most was just being with him, and not neccesarily sexually. Just…spending time with him.” 

“Did you think the thrill of your marriage was gone?” 

She considers this for a moment before answering. 

“Well,” Abbey says, thoughtfully. “I don’t think that’s the right phrase. Something was certainly gone, but it wasn’t the thrill.” 

“Did you express your concerns about your relationship to your husband?” 

“I’m sure I complained, just casually. I don’t recall us ever having a serious conversation about it.” 

“Do you think he shared your concerns?” Dr. Hewson inquires, with a genuine interest that surprises even him, let alone her. 

“Something tells me he did, yeah. I just don’t believe he ever had the time to consider it, to really analyze what was going on and find a solution.” 

“He wasn’t a very attentive husband?” 

She wants to be fair. There were times she thought so, and times she believed that couldn’t be further from the truth. Often when her thoughts reached this point, it was at the mercy of anger and, occasionally, loneliness. But it wasn’t the whole truth, in its unadultered, tortuous entirety. 

“I’m not sure it’s possible to be an attentive husband and be president at the same time.” 

“Was he forgetful?” Dr. Hewson asks. “Absent-minded.” 

“Sure. He actually…” It pains her to admit this. She feels her many inadequacies surround and haunt her as she does so. “…forgot my birthday, two months before Zoey was kidnapped.” 

“Was that the first time he’d forgotten your birthday?” 

“Yes.” 

“What happened?” 

“Well, when I woke up that morning, he’d already left. No note, no card, no gift, not even a message passed down by the staff. Nothing. So I waited all day for him to call, and he never did. Later, I waited in the Residence, thinking foolishly that he’d planned a surprise, or at the very least had a good excuse. By nine o’clock, he still hadn’t come, or called. So I called up my best friend, Millicent Griffith.” 

Dr. Hewson raises one eyebrow. 

“The Surgeon General?” 

“Yes. She was newly divorced and very bitter, to say the least. And by that point, I was feeling rather bitter as well. So I slipped into a little black cocktail dress and decided to go out with her. He showed up as I was on my way out the door.” 


	4. Wreck of the Day 4

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 4: The Birthday 

“Well, when I woke up that morning, he’d already left. No note, no card, no gift, not even a message passed down by the staff. Nothing. So I waited all day for him to call, and he never did. Later, I waited in the Residence, thinking foolishly that he’d planned a surprise, or at the very least had a good excuse. By nine o’clock, he still hadn’t come, or called. So I called up my best friend, Millicent Griffith.” 

Dr. Hewson raises one eyebrow. 

“The Surgeon General?” 

“Yes. She was newly divorced and very bitter, to say the least. And by that point, I was feeling rather bitter as well. So I slipped into a little black cocktail dress and decided to go out with her. He showed up as I was on my way out the door.” 

\- 

Washington, D.C.   
March, 2003 

The first thing he noticed was her bare back, which was faced to him. Her dress was nearly backless and rather short. She stood before the mirror in the bathroom, perfecting her makeup. She saw his reflection as he leaned into the doorframe behind her. 

“Hey,” he said, quietly, somehow sensing he was in trouble. 

She said nothing; she only put on her lipstick, puckered her lips once or twice, then pushed past him into the bedroom. 

“Are you putting on a fashion show for the staff or are you going somewhere?” 

“Guess,” she replied, opening and slamming drawers. 

He nodded and with his hands in his pockets, slowly moved toward her. 

“Where are you going?” 

He didn’t really want to know the answer, because it didn’t matter. Somehow, he had screwed up. And she was going somewhere without him. 

“Out,” was her terse reply. 

“With whom?” 

“With Millie. Excuse me,” she said, pushing past him. 

“Okay,” Jed began, following her path. “What did I do now?” 

She whirled around suddenly, and walked over until she was standing directly in front of him. Their eyes locked, fueling the strength of her already intense anger. 

“Let me give you a hint.” 

With that, she began to hum the tune to “Happy Birthday.” Then she cocked her head to one side, and with a quick raising of both her eyebrows before brushing past him, she declared war. 

\- 

London, England  
August, 2003 

“How did that make you feel?” Dr. Hewson questions. 

“It made me feel like crap, Dr. Hewson. What do you think? It made me unimportant, unloved, unworth, uneverything. Birthdays were always a big deal for Jed and me. Every year he surprised me somehow. Every year, he made sure he did something wonderful and romantic. Same goes with anniversaries. He hadn’t forgotten a birthday in thirty-eight years.” 

She closes her eyes, fighting back tears. He waits until it is clear that she has regained her composure, then proceeds as planned. 

“Why do you think he forgot that year?” 

He watches helplessly at tears begin to well up in her eyes. She takes a deep breath, chasing the tears away, and presses a finger under each of her eyes, removing the eyeliner and mascara that had gathered. 

“Well, I thought…I don’t know. I felt like he was…losing interest.” 

Dr. Hewson sits up straight, looking her directly in the eyes, though she avoids his gaze. 

“In you?” 

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice conveying how the truth had tormented her. 

“Why would he lose interest?” 

“You might be the first person I’ve ever directly admitted this to, but let’s face it. I’m old.” 

Dr. Hewson couldn’t possibly disagree more. His wife was old. But this woman seated before him most certainly was not. He never saw age as an indicator of old and young. To him, it was all in personality, strength, vigor, vitality, humor, and self-possession.. She certainly was the epitome of each of these things. 

“You thought he’d lost interest because you were old?” 

She laughs and tilts her head to the side a bit, narrowing her eyes in his general direction. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time a man lost interest in his aging wife.” 

A fair point, yes, and a sad one, but he suspected it to be false in this particular case. 

“A few minutes ago, you said you had a healthy sex life. Don’t you think that sex would have been the first casualty of war, so to speak, if he was losing interest in you?” 

“Not neccesarily,” she replies, cool and confident now. “You’re a man, Dr. Hewson. You know that if there’s nothing else around, you’ll take what you can get.” 

Strange, but he doesn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. Her eyes are burning into him now, certain as ever that her accusation is veritable and indisputable. She is disappointed when he doesn’t even attempt to prove her wrong. He remains absolutely neutral. 

“Is that the way the self felt to you? Like he was taking what he could get?” 

“Sometimes. Like I said earlier, there was never very much time. Often, it was rather…slam, bam, thank you, ma’am.” 

Dr. Hewson wants to laugh at the saying. Not only the saying itself, but the look and tone of her voice when she voiced it. He does not. 

“But it wasn’t always like that?” 

“No,” she answers, resolutely. “Rarely was sex just…sex for us. Usually it was, I don’t know, romantic. A sensual experience. Not just in and out, if you know what I mean.” 

“And that changed?” 

“Yes.” 

“When?” 

“When he began losing interest in me,” Abbey says, as matter-of-factly as her emotions would allow. 

“When do you think that started?” 

“Sometime around my last birthday.” 

“What else did he do to make you think that?” Dr. Hewson questions. 

“Little things. Lots of little things.” 

“For instance?” 

“For instance,” Abbey says. “The compliments stopped. I know this sounds very Prima Donna-esque, but you’re talking to a woman who’s used to being complimented by her husband every day, even if it was just in the form of sexual innuendo.” 

“Sexual innuendo?” 

“Yes. Innuendo, banter, all of it. It was our trademark. It always made the staff a little antsy, not to mention our children. He liked to tease me when I wore my glasses. Apparently they were a major turn-on for him. That, and when my hair was wet. And when I went into doctor mode, as he called it. He’d say, ‘You know, you’re very sexy when you’re in doctor mode.’ I’d act exhasperated or annoyed whenever he did it. But truthfully, it was really…comforting to know I could still stir up those feeling in him after well over thirty years of marriage. That he still wanted me. It was gratifying. But that all stopped shortly after my birthday. I think the last time he told me I was beautiful was on our second Inaugeration Day, less than two months before my birthday.” 

“Did that make you feel doubtful about your appearance?” 

Abbey looks at him incredulously, her mouth open slightly, and her eyebrows raised. 

“Well, yeah!” 

“So what did you do?” 

“I acted like a spoiled, petulant child is what I did,” she answers. 

“In what way?” 

“I started…trying to get his attention. You see, I’ve always been sort of a problem for the staff because I tend to dress…sexier than most First Ladies. More revealing, curve-hugging, that kind of thing. It’s just who I am. And Jed used to love that about me. Anyway, gradually my skirts got shorter and my shirts cut lower and tighter.” 

“Did that get his attention?” 

“No,” Abbey admits, quietly. “It didn’t.” 

“And that surprised you?” 

“Yes! Before all this started, I couldn’t wear a skirt, period, without him pouncing on me!” 

“So you think he lost interest?” 

“No. I thought he did, then. Now I know why.” 

“Why?” Dr. Hewson asks. 

“His conscience was starting to get to him. Not telling me about Shareef’s assassination. He closed himself off and distanced himself from me.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“I know.” 

** 

Manchester, New Hampshire 

She holds her purse tightly against her as she entered the room, cautious and reserved. She sits over the the couch, the same one on which she used to twice a week for well over a year. Nothing has changed. Everything is in its original spot, perfectly organized and completely professional. The same can be said for forty-two year old woman waiting for her in her usual chair. 

“Well, Elizabeth,” Dr. Tyler says, crossing her legs. “Long time, no see.” 

Elizabeth Bartlet Westin smiles as widely as she can, though that isn’t saying much. She moves her purse from her lap and places it beside her on the couch, then crosses her own legs. 

“How are you, Dr. Tyler?” 

“Very well, thank you.” 

“That’s good,” Liz replies, shifting her gaze from the older woman. 

“It’s been nearly five years, Liz. What brings you back to therapy?” 

“Insanity, I’m sure.” 

“Liz.” 

Liz allows Dr. Tyler to steal her attention, and looks her straight in the eyes. Her expression is surprised and incredulous. As if she really didn’t know. 

“You don’t live under a rock, Dr. Tyler. You can’t tell me you haven’t watched the news, or picked up a newspaper, or glanced at a magazine on the shelf at the supermarket in the last few weeks.” 

“I would never claim that,” Dr. Tyler says, haughtily. 

“Then you know exactly why I’m here.” 

“You’re here because of your mother?” 

“My mother, my father, my sisters…” Elizabeth replies. 

“Why your sisters?” 

“Do they need a reason?” 

“No. But you have one. Elizabeth, it’s been five years since you’ve been to therapy. With me, at least. When you first came to me, you were confused and overwhelmed. Your father had just been elected President of the United States and only months later, you found out you were pregnant. You had a lot going on in your life. I think therapy did you a lot of good, and I didn’t worry about you when you decided you didn’t need help anymore. I’ve been thinking about you for the last few weeks, and wondering how you were dealing with all of this. I’m very pleased that you’ve decided to come back. But this is not your first time doing this, and I won’t have you acting like it. So you can either open up and be completely honest with me, or you can go back to feeling confused and overwhelmed. It’s up to you. Now, what do you say?” 

Liz considers for a moment, avoiding Dr. Tyler’s watchful eyes. She needs to be here, she knows. She needs to talk to someone objective, someone outside of the situation. Someone completely unbiased. Granted, baring your soul to another person isn’t always the most easy or pleasant of all experiences, but in this case it has to be done if she wants to come out of this sane. 

“Today’s Doug’s birthday. He’s thirty-five.” 

Dr. Tyler is clearly confused by the sudden non sequitor. She stares at her patient with narrowed eyes, trying to will it out of her. 

“I’m sorry,” Liz says. “I don’t know why I said that.” 

But Dr. Tyler surprises her, and smiles brightly. 

“It’s Doug’s birthday. Doing anything exciting for the big day?” 

“Well, I forgot his birthday last year. So let’s just say I’ll be doing everything I can to make it up to him.” 


	5. Wreck of the Day 5

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 5: The Deal 

Washington, D.C. 

“I feel like all of this goes back to The Deal,” Jed says to his psychiatrist. 

“What’s the deal?” Dr. Adams questions. 

“The Deal. After we won the New Hampshire primary, before the first election. We were in South Carolina, because the primary was basically a shoo-in for us. Anyway, Abbey and I made a deal regarding my MS. When I ran for a second term, I broke it. God, she was so angry at me. Not that I blame her.” 

“Tell me about the deal.” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I’ve got time.” 

** 

February, 1998- Charleston, South Carolina 

He had left the party a few minutes earlier, and they all pretended not to notice. But she could only pretend for so long before she left in search of him. She found him in the next room, appearing small and helpless in an overstuffed armchair. The room was poorly lit, but she required no illumination to discern his lonely, melancholy figure. In the doorway, she stood tall and majestic, a far cry from her usual short yet strangely intimidating. She observed him circumspectly, stopping occasionally to lightly snap her left wrist, causing the red wine in the glass she so firmly gripped to jump a bit. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was well aware of her strong presence in the room, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Remaining steadfast in the arched doorway, she lifted her glass and pressed it to her lips, allowing an abundant few ounces of wine to pass through, into her mouth and beyond. She then tapped the nail of her right pointer finger against the glass, as she always did, creating a quick, high-pitched noise that at least garnered his coveted attention, though it proved to be fleeting. He glanced up, acknowledging her, and then his gaze fell back down, validating her. 

“You should come back in.” 

The meaning of her words, at first, escaped him. It was as if she were communicating in a language foreign to him. When she spoke again, he understood. 

“And have some more wine.” 

She shrugged her shoulders then, ever so slightly, as a soft, cynical laugh escaped her lips. 

“Might lift your spirits a bit.” 

He granted her a half smile, dutifully rather than genuinely. 

“Which, by the way, are uncharacteristically, and undeservedly I might add, on the low side.” 

With those words came the much-anticipated movement, as she sauntered, tantalizingly slowly, toward him in the way that only she could. 

“For a man who has just accomplished an incredible feat, you are awfully dreary, Governor Bartlet. Or shall I say…President Bartlet?” 

He winced out of pain or fear, or likely both. The agony his eyes conveyed made her draw back suddenly. She studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his for the response to her unvoiced, but mutually understood, concern. 

“What is it?” 

Her voice was laced with a suppressed panic, her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed. His sigh that followed was so tormented that her breath caught in her throat. 

“I don’t think I can do this, Abbey.” 

She was rendered speechless by the sheer amount of pity and self-doubt it must have taken for his conscience to instruct his mouth to say such a thing. She breathed an uneasy sigh, yet smiled confidently, mustering up all the spousal reassurance she had in her. 

“Well. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever it is, I know that you damn well can do it.” 

He shook his head and turned his eyes, though not his attention, away from her. 

“I’m just an economist.” 

Raising a challenging eyebrow, she replied, “Among other things.” 

With that said, she shifted her body to the side and lowered herself down onto his lap. He turned his head to face her and, for the first time since she had entered the room, looked her straight in the eyes. She curled her legs up and pressed her body into his, infusing her faith and love into him by the warm sensation of her touch. 

“You, my dear, are governor of New Hampshire, a three-term Congressman, beloved economics professor, Nobel Prize-winning economist, father of three beautiful, intelligent daughters, and loving husband to one Dr. Abigail Bartlet, your fantastic and wonderful wife of thirty years, who just happens to be sitting right here on your lap. And I am wholeheartedly convinced that there is nothing in this great, big, confusing world that you cannot do.” 

She kissed him fervently on the cheek, then dropped a few quick butterfly kisses along his jaw before removing her lips altogether. 

“You just blew John Hoynes right out of the water, so what the hell are you doing in here?!” 

“I don’t know,” he replied, vaguely, staring off ahead of him. 

“Jed,” Abbey said, her voice shaky and nervous. 

“What?” He asked, now concerned by the tone of his wife’s voice. 

“You’re doing that thing.” 

Her eyes were fixated on her right thigh, which was almost completely bare now that she had sat down and her skirt had inched up. 

“What thing?” 

“The thing you do when you’re scared and need to calm down.” 

His eyes wandered down to the place her gaze was locked upon. He noticed his hand was resting on her upper thigh, his fingers gently moving in a circular pattern on her skin. He had no recollection of putting his hand there at all, but he brushed that fact aside. 

“Are you saying that I have to rub your thigh with my hand in order to calm myself down?” 

The lightness in his voice allowed her to relax a little. 

“Well, I’m sure you don’t have to, but you certainly do,” she replied. 

“You realize how ridiculous that is, right? If I wanted to calm myself down, I’d go have a cigarette. Putting my hand on your thigh would only get my blood flowing even more and make me want to have my way with you.” 

“Your hand’s there now. Do you want to have your way with me here in this chair at this exact moment?” 

“Well. Maybe not at this exact moment, but in the near future…” 

“Jed.” 

“Abbey…” 

“You still haven’t moved your hand. What are you afraid of?” She asked, with genuine curiosity. 

“I’m not afraid of anything. This theory is yours is….you know. It’s…dumb! Yeah. When have I ever done this before?” 

“Lots of times.” 

“Give me an example.” 

“Too many times to count.” 

“Yeah, well, what if I’m scared and need to calm myself down while we’re at a party on opposite sides of the room, and I’m talking to someone? What then?” 

“That’s easy,” she answered, coolly. “You did it last week at Governor Foley’s party. You were talking with Governor Foley, as you had been all evening, and I was across the room. You made some excuse to leave him, then you walked over to me and pushed me into a corner. You wrapped your left arm around my waist and then let your right hand drift down to my thigh. And nobody thought anything of it because you made it look like you were telling me something important, something governorly.” 

“First of all, governorly is not a word. Second of all, I did not.” 

“Yes, you did.” 

“Well, did you ever think that maybe I was trying to turn you on, and when I didn’t get the response I’d hoped for, I gave up?” 

“No,” Abbey said, simply. 

“And why not?” 

“Because, honey, if you always tried to turn me on that way, you’d never get laid.” 

He dropped his haw, feigning astonishment. 

“I resent that.” 

“As well you should.” 

“You’ve wounded me, Abigail,” he said, placing one hand over his heart. 

She smiled faintly, and snuggled up closer to him, tucking her head under his chin. He tightened one arm around her torso, and kept the other hand, involuntarily of course, in its original position on her thigh. 

“At least now you’re talking like you’re again,” she said. “And not Mr. ‘woe is me, I can’t do this, I’m just an economist.’” 

“Hey, quiet. That guy is real. He’ll hear you.” 

“Then tell me why that guy is so scared.” 

“He’s nervous about the future.” 

“Yeah, I hear he’s gonna be the Democratic nominee for President of the United States.” 

“That’s what they keep telling him.” 

She nodded, playing along with his game. 

“How does he feel about that?” 

“He’s a little nervous. You know how it is.” 

“Right, sure.” 

“But mostly he’s confident.” 

“He is?” 

“No. He just pretends he is. But his wife figured him out, like she always does,” he replied. 

“His wife’s a smart cookie, huh?” 

“Eh, I don’t know about that. She does have a medical degree from Harvard, but that doesn’t really mean anything. He never saw her study while she was in med school.” 

“I suppose she just guessed her way through the MCATS then.” 

“Yep.” 

“Why’s he nervous about being President?” Abbey questioned. 

“Plenty of reasons. Running the country’s a tough job. Also, he’s feeling guilty.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Well, don’t tell anyone, but he’s got Multiple Sclerosis. Nobody knows but his immediate family, and he hasn’t told the public.” 

“Does he think he should tell them?” 

Jed shrugged. 

“He wants to be President.” 

“Even though he’s so nervous.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I see. Would you tell him something for me?” 

“Sure.” 

“Tell him he has his wife’s support, no matter what he decides.” 

“I will. I know he’ll appreciate that. He loves his wife a great deal. Sometimes, he thinks, more than he loves himself.” 

“Only sometimes?” 

“By sometimes, he meant always,” Jed said. 

“That’s what I thought he meant.” 

“He wonders now and then if she loves him as much as he loves her.” 

“Oh, well I spoke with her the other day, and I can assure you…she does. She absolutely does.” 

His grin was boyish, but his gratitude was sincere. 

“Yeah?” 

She nodded definitely, returning the grin. 

“Yeah.” 

With his hand lightly touching her chin, he guided her lips closer to his and kissed her softly. When the kiss broke, he felt her smile against his lips as she whispered, “You moved your hand.” 

He drew back slightly so he could look at her. 

“What?” 

“Your hand. You moved it off my leg when you kissed me,” Abbey repeated. 

“Oh. Yeah, so I did. Guess I’m not scared anymore.” 

“Guess not. Are you still nervous about the MS?” 

“I wish I wasn’t.” 

“Well, you know what we could do?” 

“What?” Jed asked. 

“We could make a deal.” 

“A deal?” 

“Yeah! If you get elected in November, you promise not to run for the second term.” 

“What good would that do?” 

“Well, by the time the second term would begin, it would be ten years after the initial diagnosis, at which time your relapsing-remitting MS could turn into secondary-progressive MS and…” 

“Right, yeah. I understand now.” 

“You don’t have to do it, Jed.” 

“No, I know. But you’re right. I don’t want to give it a chance to hurt me while I’m office. I don’t want to risk that.” He sighed. “So this is it, huh? This is how I justify keeping it a secret. One term.” 

“One term.” 

“Then I’m outta there.” 

“Mmm-hmm. Then we begin our retirement.” 

“Retirement, my left foot! You’ll be working till you’re a hundred, Abbey!” 

“Why stop at a hundred? Why not till I die?” 

“Because you are immortal, Hot Pants.” 

“Yeah. I’m about as immortal as OJ Simpson is innocent.” 

“I never did think he really killed her,” Jed replied. 

“Oh, come on, Jed. The man is guilty as is.” 

“But then, how guilty is sin anyway?” 

“I’m not exactly Mother Superior here, but I’m gonna go with very.” 

“I disagree.” 

“Then you’re a jackass!” 

“Tell me something I don’t know.” 

“While you’re at it, you may as well exonerate Charles Manson when you hit the Oval Office!” Abbey said. 

“Charles Manson! Now there’s a man who’s innocent.” 

“Oy vey!” 

“Oy vey? You sound like Woody Allen’s mother in all his movies!” 

“And you should like a priest who wants to absolve Charles Manson of all his sins!” 

“God forgives, Abbey.” 

“Oh, spare me.” 

“God forgives, and God loves.” 

“I’m going back to the party.” 

“God forgives, God loves, and God accommodates.” 

“Goodbye!” 

“Did I mention God forgives?” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“Well, guess what?” 

“I’m waiting with bated breath, honey.” 

“God forgives!” 

“Oy vey!” 

“Forgives!” 

“Vey!” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know!” 


	6. Wreck of the Day 6

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 6: The Anecdotes 

Washington, D.C. 

Jed Bartlet has spent the last fifteen minutes ranting about his staff. Josh did this, Sam said that, CJ went here, Debbie was there. Dr. Adams has been patient, occasionally even smiling and nodding as if he understood the pressures of daily life in the west wing of the White House. He waits for the President to move on to things slightly more substantial. He often begins his sessions speaking of inconsequential things. It is his way of easing into it, convincing himself that it’s okay to speak freely to this doctor. Dr. Adams is not the enemy. On the contrary, he is the key to that unlocks the door to the only room Jed wants to be in. 

Abruptly bringing Dr. Adams back into focus, the President changes his topic. Clearly, his pre-session rambling has finished and he is ready to move on. And thank God. 

“You know what I was thinking about today?” Jed asks. 

Dr. Adams sits up straight, with his pencil positioned over his notebook, ready to write at any given moment. 

“What?” 

“A few yeas back, Abbey and I took a quick vacation, maybe three or four days, to Florida. Congress wasn’t in session, and no major crises had befallen us, so we jetted off to West Palm Beach for a few days. On our way to the hotel, we’re driving with the motorcade, and of course the whole street had to be blocked off and such. And Abbey says to me, ‘I feel awful that we’re blockinf off this entire street. Think of all the lives we’re distrupting. Ambulances have to be re-routed, buses, taxis. Right now, a man is rushing his pregnant wife to the hospital so she can give birth to their first child Now it’s gonna take him ten extra minutes to get there.’ And I said, ‘Well, it’s that, or someone trying to blow us up. You choose.’ And she said, ‘Jed, you really think that poor expectant father is plotting our demise?’” 

Dr. Adams smiles, pleased that the President has opted to share something like that with him. 

“What made you think of that?” 

He shrugs, dismissively. 

“I don’t know. Just popped into my head this morning.” 

“It’s a good story,” Dr. Adams comments. 

“It is. Especially when you know the rest.” 

“There’s more?” 

“That night at the hotel, we were in bed watching Leno. There was a group of kids, teenagers probably, laughing outside, at least ten stories down. It got to the point where we couldn’t hear. And when you get to the point where you can’t hear a voice like Jay Leno’s, you know you’ve got a problem. And Jay was talking, making a joke I’m sure, about cocaine. So Abbey’s frustrated, gets out of bed, and opens the window. She sticks her head out and shouts ‘Hey! Hey, you kids! The President of the United States is up here trying to hear Jay Leno talk about crack, so shut up!’” 

As much as Dr. Adams tries, to the very best of his abilities, to hold in his laughter and be completely indifferent to what he has just been told, it seems impossible. He bursts out laughing, dropping his pencil on the floor. Jed leans over and picks it up, handing it to him. 

“Oh. Thank you, sir,” Dr. Adams says, between fits of involuntary laughter. 

“You’re very welcome,” Jed replies, laughing considerably himself. 

“Did they listen?” 

“Who?” 

“The riotous teenagers.” 

“Oh, yeah. My wife is very intimidating you know.” 

The smile on Dr. Adams’ face fades as he returns to the original purpose of te session, which doesn’t include laughing. 

“Have you been remembering a lot of anecdotes like that lately?” 

“Yeah, actually,” Jed replies, thoughtfully. 

“Anything else that stood out?” 

He thinks for a moment, allowing all the thoughts that had passed through his mind that day to take another trip through. 

“There was a DAR function last night. Abbey used to hate being in the DAR.” 

“Used to?” 

“Well, I guess she still does.” 

“Sometimes you refer to your wife in past tense,” Dr. Adams observes. 

“Do I?” 

“Occasionally, yes.” 

“Hmm. Well, anyway. I remembered how Abbey hated the DAR.” 

Dr. Adams sighs and leans back in his chair. Clearly the President is not interested in discussing his astute observation. 

“Why was she in it?” 

“Family tradition. Her mother hated it too, but it was legacy thing they had going on. Abbey never planned on joining, but then her mother died, when she was seventeen. Her older sister loathed the DAR and her little sister was just too young. So Abbey didi t. Now Zoey’s a member, carrying on the legacy.” 

“Why did they hate it?” 

“It’s full of hoity-toities. Snobs. Abbey called them the Ladies Who Lunch. Now she’s their most important member,” Jed says. 

“Why’s that?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because now she’s the most influential woman in America.” He grins. “A few months ago, they tried to kick her out, or something, because her qualifying ancestor was a pirate. Well, pirate, privateer, whatever. I think they were just looking for publicity by stirring up trouble myself.” 

“What happened?” 

“It’s never been entirely clear to me. Something about Francis Scott Key.” 

Jed laughs then, quite suddenly. 

“What?” Dr. Adams asks. 

“I was just thinking about how…she used to confuse the hell outta me. I knew her better than anyone in the world, and yet there were still times when I had no earthly idea what she was talking about. Which was good. She kept me on my toes. Never a dull moment when she was around.” 

“You’re speaking about her in the past tense again.” 

“Yeah,” Jed replies, disinterested, and then laughs yet again. “Once, Abbey and I went to Parents’ Night at Ellie’s school. She must have been in the four grade. We had her in private school that year, to see if she’d react to the atmosphere better. Ellie was always very shy, very introverted and studious. This school was the most elite in the area, and the mothers were all part of the DAR crowd, the stay-at-home type, and the fathers all belonged to some hunting club. You know, that kind of thing. Abbey and I arrived late, because we’d just come from Parents’ Night at the high school for Liz. We walked into the classroom, and suddenly all eyes were on us. And there was only one seat open. I told her to sit down, and I’d stand. And she said ‘Don’t be silly, Jed. Why should you have to stand when I can just sit on your lap?’ So, that’s exactly what we did. She sat on my lap, and immediately the women started whispering. Then, I guess Abbey’s skirt must have inched up a little when she sat, because the eyes of all the men in the room instantly became fixated on her, which only made the women angier, and their whispers louder. 

See, Abbey was really…not welcome with these women. They despised everything about her. She scandalized them. Not only was she a doctor, and therefore not a housewife or soccer mom, but she was a doctor who liked to…strut her stuff, if you know what I mean. They saw her as a sort of…rebellious sex kitten feminista. I had husbands approach me all the time saying they admired me for putting up with her. And I’d say I admired them for putting up with such stuck-up, boring, frigid bitches. Anyway, at this particular meeting, they were giving her a hard time. So eventually, she’d had it. She stood up and put them all in their place. She siad, ‘Yes, ladies, it’s true. I do have legs, and I have no problem showing them off. Maybe if you did the same, your husband wouldn’t have to drool over mine! And so I’m comfortable enough to sit on my husband’s lap in public. I think the real question is, why aren’t you? So why don’t you stop scrutinizing my life for five minute and take a look at your own!’ I was so proud of her that night. In fact, I wanted to jump her right there. But I figured that’d just make things worse.” 

** 

Washington, D.C. 

“I’ve been seeing a lot of you,” Dr. Moran comments, studying her patient meticulously. “Not that I mind the extra cash, but I’m just curious…” 

“I’ve been feeling charitable,” Dr. Millicent Griffith replies. “I enjoy writing checks. It relaxes me.” 

“I like receiving checks. Relaxes me too.” 

“Glad to hear it.” 

“Are you going to tell me the real reason or are we going to beat around the bush for the next few weeks?” Dr. Moran questions. 

“I don’t know. I’m thinking that after three years of picking apart my brain, you should be able to read my mind as well.” 

“Well, for that, I charge extra.” 

“All right, all right. I’ll talk,” Millie concedes. 

“Sense or sarcasm?” 

Dr. Moran has been doing this dance with Millicent Griffith for years now. She doesn’t miss a beat. On a good day, she can interpret Millie’s every twitch and blink. Some sessions, they don’t exchange more than ten words. Dr. Moran doesn’t need to hear her speak to know what she’s feeling. 

“Sense.” 

Dr. Moran raises an eyebrow, a gesture full of skepticism and doubt. 

“By all means.” 

“You have to promise not to fly off the handle when I tell you this,” Millie says. 

“I’m your psychiatrist. You could tell me you killed a guy and I wouldn’t fly off the handle.” 

“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t think you have it in you.” 

“You were saying…” 

“Right. I have an announcement to make.” 

“This oughtta be good,” Dr. Moran smirks. 

“Damn right it is. I’m just going to come out and say it. Plain and simple. I’ve been having an affair with Leo.” 

Dr. Moran does a double take, not fully comprehending the weight of her patient’s words. 

“Leo…McGarry?” 

“Yes,” Millie answers, calm, cool, and collected, for once. 

“Leo…the President’s Chief of Staff McGarry?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re sleeping with him.” 

“Yes, I am. I am sleeping with him, damnit.” 

“Well…oh.” 

“Oh, indeed,” Millie says. 

“When did this start?” 

“A month or so ago.” 

“What do the Bartlets have to say about this?” Dr. Moran asks. 

“Jed’s all right with it. Abbey doesn’t know.” 

“She doesn’t know?” 

“She doesn’t know.” 

“You don’t think you should tell her?” 

“Oh, I know I should. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to. At least…not yet.” 


	7. Wreck of the Day 7

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 7: The Brother 

Washington, D.C. 

“What I’d like to do,” Dr. Adams begins. “is have you describe to me, to the best of your abilities, a day in the life of your marriage at a given point in time. I’ve found that it’s a helpful tool in noting the progression of things, how things have changed and which things may have, in the long run, contributed to the state your marriage is in now.” 

The President hesitates a moment, considering this proposal. It isn’t so much that he doubts his memory, but having to describe something so personal will be a challenge. He had become much more comfortable being honest with his therapist in recent weeks, but he still had quite a long road to travel before reaching his destination. 

“Okay,” Jed agrees. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. Why don’t you start by describing a day in the life of your marriage after one month?” 

“When we’d been married a month?” 

“Yes,” Dr. Adams answers. 

“Well. We got married in the summer, after my college graduation. We were planning on moving to London, so I could go to the London School of Economics in the fall. So in the meantime, we lived with her parents in Massachusetts.” 

“You lived with her parents?” 

Jed laughs at the expression of disbelief that is plastered in his psychiatrist’s face. 

“Yeah. We didn’t see the point in renting an apartment for such a short time. So we stayed in the room above the garage, which, in away, was like an apartment in itself, except we didn’t have to pay rent.” 

“What did you do during that time?” 

“Abbey was taking summer classes, because she was supposed to be going into her senior year at Amherst, and she wanted to get her degree before we went to London. So she essentially completed eight months of college in four months. Needless to say, she was completely swamped the entire time and could barely fit eating into her schedule. While she was doing that, I was commuting back and forth from Boston every day. Abbey’s stepmom, Joanne Bennett, worked for Random House’s Boston division, and she got me a job working with her,” Jed explains. 

“So you were an editor?” 

“Yeah, more like a fact checker. Joanne said she could put my useless knowledge to good use, and she did. It was a great experience, and it provided me with the funds I needed to get us started in London.” 

“Were you able to spend a lot of time together?” Dr. Adams asks. 

“Not much, to be honest. Most nights, I’d help her study. But then there were some nights when I was more of a distraction, so she’d kick me out and I’d spend the evening having philosophical discussions with her brother Michael, talking about politics with her sister, Julia, or watching tv with her little sister, Michelle. And I didn’t mind really, because it gave me a chance to get very close to her family, and that important to both of us. I think that during that summer, I was able to establish firm bonds with her family that have lasted up to this day.” 

“Have you been in touch with your wife’s family since the separation?” 

“A little, yeah. Julia has taken to calling me at least once a week to see how I’m doing, and Michelle’s sent me about a hundred fruit baskets in the last month,” Jed says. 

“What about her brother?” 

“Oh.” He glances down at his shoes, clearly avoiding Dr. Adams’ gaze. “He died about thirty years ago.” 

“How did he die?” 

** 

London, England 

“He…killed himself,” Abbey admits, quietly. 

“Your brother?” Dr. Hewson questions. 

“Yeah.” 

“When?” 

“June 6th, 1973.” 

Dr. Hewson nods, jotting down some notes. 

“How old was he?” 

“He’d just turned thirty-one.” 

“How old were you?” He asks. 

“Twenty-seven. Barely.” 

“I see. How did he kill himself?” 

Abbey sits up straight, crosses one shapely leg over the other and folds her hands in her lap. 

“Why are we talking about this?” 

“Because it looks like your brother’s suicide had a very profound affect on you. And I’m getting a strong feeling that his death may be indirectly related to the situation you’re in now,” Dr. Hewson observes. 

She locks her gaze with his for a moment, her eyes burning into his. It surprises her enormously, but she trusts him. 

“He cut his wrists,” Abbey states, calmly. “And it made him sick, so he swallowed half a bottle of sleeping…” 

“Wait, wait, please. How do you know it made him sick?” Dr. Hewson asks, out of genuine curiosity. 

“Michael couldn’t stand the sight of blood. That was the reason he went into physics instead of medicine.” 

“I see. Go on.” 

“Well, the pills were taking too long so…” 

“How do you know that?” He interrupts her yet again. 

“Michael was always terribly impatient.” 

“Hmm.” Dr. Hewson is not convinced, but not exactly suspicious either. “Okay.” 

“So then he shot himself. Quick and painless, unlike the other two.” 

He studies her carefully, noticing the sudden change in her body language and mannerisms. She is a bit restless now, to the point where she appears to be nervous about something. He makes good note of this on his legal pad. 

“You knew your brother very well, didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” Abbey answers, quickly, before pondering her response. “I mean, I thought I did. But how much can you really know about another person?” 

** 

Washington, D.C 

“You’re zoning out.” 

Dr. Moran’s inquisitive voice draws Millicent Griffith back in from her daydream. 

“What?” Millie says. “I’m sorry.” 

“What are you thinking about?” 

She shakes her head, dismissively. 

“I was ust looking at your bookshelf. You have ‘Death in Venice.’” 

Dr. Moran smiles. 

“Yes. Have you read it?” 

“No, I want to. Michael was always trying to get me to read it.” 

Well, this is certainly a foreign name to Dr. Moran. Three years treating the Surgeon General and never once has such a name come up. 

“Who’s Michael?” 

“Michael Bennett,” Millie replies. “Abbey’s brother. We dated for awhile, before I married Scott.” 

“You never told me that.” 

Dr. Moran would never admit it, but she is hurt and slightly offended by the omission. 

“It’s not something I talk about very often.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know,” Millie says, honestly. “It’s just not my favorite topic, I guess.” 

“When did you date Michael?” 

“Uh…’64 to ’65, thereabouts. He was twenty-two, I was eighteen. We’d known each other since we were kids, but that’s when we started dating.” 

“How did you start your relationship?” Dr. Moran inquires. 

“Well, it was during EAR, that’s what we called it. It means Era of Abbey’s Rebellion. After her mom died, she went a little loco and started following Bob Dylan across America trying to get into his pants. I joined forces with Michael, their sister Julia, and Scott, who thought he was in love with her at the time. We met up with her at a Dylan concert in Jersey and dragged her home. That’s when Michael and I really bonded. We got her home and I started dating Michael, and Abbey started dating Scott.” 

“Your best friend dated your ex-husband?” 

“Yeah. I told you, she was loco.” Millie laughs. “We all scared boyfriends in those days. We had a little circle of friends. It was me, Abbey, Michael, Julia, Scott, Leo McGarry, Jenny Lowry- who later became Jenny McGarry- Ron Erlich, Steve Reeseman, and Becky Andrews- who later became Becky Reeseman. Everyone dated everyone at some point, except Leo. Leo only dated Becky, Julia, and finally Jenny. He never dated Abbey, and he never dated me, until now that is. Abbey dated Ron, Steve, and Scott. Her longest relationship was Ron, which lasted nine months, and ended when she met Jed. I dated Ron, Steve, Michael, and finally Scott. So on, and so forth. Not one of us ever dated anyone outside the circle until Abbey met Jed. Though I’m sure Jed would have been in the circle, as he was Leo’s best friend, if he hadn’t gone to Indiana for college. But it all worked out in the end, for the most part. Abbey married Jed, Leo married Jenny, Steve married Becky, and I married Scott. Though it’s interesting that now we’re all either divorced or separated. Go figure.” 

“What happened to your relationship with Michael?” 

“It ended,” Millie answers, simply. 

“How?” 

“Badly.” 

“Why?” 

“I cheated on him. I slept with Scott.” 

“Why did you do that?” Dr. Moran asks. 

“Michael was a drag! He was so fixated on death and other depressing things. He never wanted to go anywhere or do anything.” 

“You were unfaithful to Scott as well, and it ended your marriage. I’m sensing a pattern.” 

“I was faithful to Scott for thirty-six years. I cheated on him because he cheated on me!” Millie exlclaims, protectively. 

“You’ve never been able to prove that,” Dr. Moran reminds her. “And Scott never admitted to it.” 

“Scott lies. He slept with Becky Reeseman and he’s in denial. Not that I blame him. I’d be in denial too if I’d slept with Becky Reeseman.” 

“Is that why you slept with Becky’s husband?” 

“You’re making it sound like I’m Joan Crawford in ‘The Women’!” 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Dr. Moran wonders. 

“No!” 

“All right. So you cheated on Michael. Is that why you don’t like to talk about him?” 

“Why then?” 

“Because in his suicide note to Abbey, he listed me as one of the top ten reasons why he killed himself.” 


	8. Wreck of the Day 8

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 8: The Liberal Catholic 

Washington, D.C. 

“All right,” Dr. Adams says. “Let’s do six months of marriage. Describe to me an ordinary day for both of you.” 

“Okay, well. That was January of 1968, so…I was in school, at LSE. We had a small flat in Knightsbridge, nothing fancy. While I was in school, Abbey was working as a medical transcriptionist at a hospital nearby. The pay was relatively good, and it kept her in the medical field, so she was happy. I felt guilty and selfish that I was keeping her from medical school, but she really was happy. I guess that was all that mattered,” Jed replies. 

“What were your days like?” 

“Well, we both usually had to be up by seven, which was good because we had mornings together. Sometimes I’d wake her up a little earlier so we could…you know.” 

Dr. Adams smiles. 

“Yes.” 

“Then we’d have breakfast together and go off our separate ways. Depending on my class schedule, somedays I’d be home earlier than others, but normally I was home by six for the night. Abbey would come home from work around seven and get dinner together.” 

“So she’d cook dinner for you?” 

“Yeah,” Jed laughed. “She’d make her secret recipe, take-out. Abbey was never much good in the kitchen. She could make pasta, grilled cheese, and occasionally eggs. But that was only occasionally. Sometimes I would cook, because I’m pretty good with a frying pan, and I make some damn fine chili. Anyway. We’d usually sit down together and eat, but there were times when I’d have to eat in the study while I did school work and such. She spent a lot of nights on her own. I have no idea how she managed to entertain herself all the time, but she did. And she never complained once.” 

“How about weekends?” 

“Well, I did do plenty of studying on the weekends as well, but not nearly as much. Every Saturday morning, we would sleep in, then I’d make her breakfast, and we’d go to Hyde Park and walk for a couple hours, just talking and enjoying each other’s company. It was tradition. Then we’d go home, and I’d study for a few hours. She used that time to write to everyone back home, and to her brother in Vietnam. He’d enlisted shortly after we left for London, quite suddenly actually. She had a tough time accepting it, and I’m really not sure she ever did. Anyway, after that, we’d go to dinner at Zeb’s, which we did every Saturday night. Then sometimes we’d take in a movie or a show, and just hang out at the apartment the rest of the night. Sundays, we’d go to church together, then have brunch with a few friends. Then usually we’d spent the rest of the day alternating between studying and…uh…” 

“Go on, say it,” Dr. Adams challenges. 

“Uh…sleeping together?” 

“That’s a good start. Why do you think you have a hard time articulating that?” 

“I’m a Catholic, Doctor,” Jed replies. “I was brought up thinking that..you know…was dirty and, if it had to be done, it could never be spoken of.” 

“Is your wife a Catholic too?” 

“Abbey’s what I like to call a Liberal Catholic. Her family wasn’t half as strict as mine. Her parents encouraged her to be comfortable enough with herself that she could speak freely and openly. You should hear the mouth on that woman, the way she talks about…” 

“Sex.” 

“Yes. See, I have no problem discussing it with Abbey becayse she’s, you know, my wife. She’s the only person I’ve ever…done it with. We do a little of…innuendo. Abbey calls it sexual sarcasm. I would never call it that because I’m not as comfortable in public as she is, but that’s what it is.” 

“So you’re a very strict Catholic,” Dr. Adams says. 

“Not so much anymore, but I was. I’m still a very religious man, but I’m disillusioned with catholicism. I almost became a priest you know.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I was studying to become a priest, at Notre Dame,” Jed answers. 

“Why did you change your mind?” 

“I met Abbey. She corrupted me. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I just could not think about anything else. I couldn’t keep my mind off her. So I changed my major to Economics and the rest is history. Literally.” 

“As a strict Catholic,” Dr. Adams begins. “I assume you waited until you got married before having sex.” 

“Actually, no. We talked about it, but ultimately decided against it. We wanted our wedding night to be special, not awkward. We waited until we were engaged.” 

“But you did lose your virginity to your wife?” 

“Yeah,” Jed says. “I don’t think it was very plesant for her though.” 

“A woman’s first time can be very painful.” 

“No, no. I just mean she had to practically be my tour guide, show me what to do, etc. She wasn’t a virgin.” 

“She wasn’t?” 

“No, far from it. Few people realize that Abbey wasn’t exactly a doe lost in the woods when I met her. She went through a very rebellious perioud after the death of her mother. It was the 60s, after all. She was a groupy.” 

“You’re kidding,” Dr. Adams comments. “A groupy?” 

“Mmm-hmm. She followed Bob Dylan and his roadies across America for four months. She says it’s very possible she lost her virginity to Bob Dylan himself, but she doesn’t remember exactly.” 

“Well then.” 

“I admit, it put me off a little when she first told me, but it really was just a phase. She pulled herself together long before I met her.” 

“I suppose that’s why she’s so open about sex,” Dr. Adams assumes. 

Jed laughs. 

“Maybe.” 

** 

London, England 

“Tony’s a Protestant,” Abbey says. 

“What?” Dr. Hewson asks, clearly confused. 

“You asked why Tony didn’t accompany me to church this morning.” 

“Oh. Yes, that’s right. Does Tony attend church?” 

“From time to time, I guess,” Abbey replies. “He’s not devout or anything.” 

“Are you?” 

“More than he is.” 

“I see.” 

“We went for brunch after Zoey and I got back from church though. He and Oliver took us out.” 

“Zoey’s dating Oliver, isn’t she?” Dr. Hewson wonders. 

Abbey nods. 

“Yes. Is that weird?” 

“Do you think it’s weird?” 

“I think it’s ironic,” Abbey says. “She really likes him, and he seems to reciprocate, so who am I to complain? 

“How does Zoey feel about you and Oliver?” 

“You’d have to ask Zoey that.” 

“How do you think she feels?” Dr. Hewson asks. 

“She’s been a good sport about it. Probably because of Oliver. I know she’d prefer that her father and I got back together, but she’s not a pain about it like Liz is.” 

“Liz gives you a hard time?” 

Abbey laughs, slightly. She understands that it’s not a particularly funny situation, but there’s something about it she finds endlessly amusing. 

“Every day.” 

“What about Eleanor?” 

“Um.” She hesitates, chewing on her upper lip. “I don’t know, honestly. I haven’t spoken to her. Not in weeks.” 

“Because of Tony?” 

“Among other things.” 

“Why do you think Zoey seems to understand, while your other daughters handle it differently?” Dr. Hewson inquires. 

“Zoey witnessed it first hand. She’s been with me from the beginning. She watched it happen. She’s had more of a chance to adjust, I suppose. And I’m grateful for that.” 

“You sound surprised.” 

“Well, Zoey’s always been more of a Daddy’s girl. I expected her to take the approach Ellie’s taken. But she’s been very supportive of my relationship with Tony.” 

“What about Tony’s children?” 

“Oliver’s fine. He’s a wonderful kid, really. He’s good to Zoey, and he’s good to me, which, frankly, I never expected. The night of my overdose, he was there. He got caught up in all my insanity, and I think he even urged me to go back to Jed. He said he was glad that I made his father happy, but he knew that I wasn’t happy. Something like that. I found that incredibly admirable of him to be so honest. I’m glad Zoey’s with him. She doesn’t always make the best choices when it comes to romantic relationships. As for Tony’s daughter, Daphne, she’s the complete opposite of Oliver. I’m fairly certain she would kill me if it wasn’t illegal. Not that I blame her. Elizabeth is the same way about Tony. Daphne has even taken to lecturing me.” 

“Lecturing you about what?” 

“Well, Daphne’s a coverted catholic. Her husband’s catholic, so she’s been exploring the religion. Upon learning that I was catholic, she started quoting passages from the bible to me. Apparently, the bible condemns everything I’ve done in the last four months. Lovely, isn’t it?” 

“How does that make you feel?” 

“I don’t know really. It bothered me at first. I’m sure it bothers the hell out of Jed and his Catholicism. But then, I’m not the most stringent catholic you’ll ever meet. Jeds calls me the Liberal Catholic. And that’s what I am. The Liberal Catholic.” 


	9. Wreck of the Day 9

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 9: The Letters 

London, England 

Abbey Bartlet crosses her shapely legs and sits up straight, the absolute picture of grace and class. With her dark hair pulled back and out of the way, it is hard not to focus on her delicate, lovely features. Her fine, porcelain skin serves as a backdrop for her perfectly shaped lips, her ever-adorable nose, and her misty emerald green eyes, which convey such heartfelt emotion that it’s impossible not to sympathize with whatever she is confessing. No sin is quite fit for condemnation when she tells of it. A simple quiver of her lips and flutter of her eyelashes and you forgive her for everything and anything she may have done. 

At least, from the perspective of Dr. Lawrence Hewson, that is. In the last few weeks, Abigail Bartlet has allowed her deepest, darkest secrets and thoughts to reach his unsuspecting ears. Even during those occasions when the entirety of their conversation revolves around the weather, he feels honored to be in her presence. In a way, it is a very humbling experience for Dr. Hewson. Abbey has shown him that even the most accomplished and admired of women is far from perfect when you look closer at the innermost intricacies of her soul. From her early childhood to being in the center of the political universe, Dr. Hewson sees that nothing she’s done has been easy. It hasn’t all been bad, granted, but not easy. Never easy. 

“Everything changed when my mother died,” she confesses, clearly suppressing the intense emotion this statement conjures up inside her. “In some ways, it brought our family closer together. Yet, at the same time, I felt distanced from them. Dad was a wreck. I don’t think he could even see straight half the time. I tried my best to just…be t here for him, but it was hard because I knew there was really nothin I could do. And I was at an age where I needed Mom the most. Seventeen and completely lost. But we all needed her. Cliché as this is, she was our rock. God, she was just…incredible. I can’t even describe her.” 

“What was her name?” Dr. Hewson asks. 

“Alexandra Jane York Bennett, of the Boston Yorks- one of the richest families in Boston. She wasn’t really into all of that though. Shortly after her debutante ball, she ran off with my father. Dad’s family was pretty well-off too, but he wasn’t part of the Boston elite, so her family didn’t approve. She married Dad when she was eighteen, and then he was drafted into the war and shipped off to Europe. She had to take care of himself while he was gone, so she got a job as a math teacher at the local high school. Dad came home a couple of times on leave, but other than that, she rarely saw him during the first few years of their marriage. It was while on leave that she became pregnant with my sister, and, a year later, my brother. Dad really didn’t get to know either of them until the war ended.” 

“What about you?” 

“I was the celebration baby, or so Mom used to tell me. The war ended in 1945, Dad came home, and I was born nine months later. Mine was the only birth my father was present for. Even when my sister, Michelle, was born in 1950, Dad was out of town on business. Mom used to say that was why Dad and I were so close. Still are,” Abbey explains. 

“Were you close with your mother as well?” 

“Oh, yeah. Very much so. I worshiped her. I worshipped both my parents, actually. Dad just always had more of a bond with me than with the other three. While I do share many qualities with my mother, the truth is, I’m just like my dad. That bothered me for awhile after Mom died. I wanted to carry on her legacy, but I didn’t feel as thought I could, because I was so much like Dad.” 

“I see,” Dr. Hewson replies. “So, what did you do?” 

“Call it rebellion, call it temporary insanity, call it what you will. None of that changes the fact that, after my mother died, I lost my mind, among other things. I pulled myself together eventually, but that was the longest year of my life. And if ever there was a period in my life I wished I could take back, that was it. The only period that comes remotely close is my time spent in the White House.” 

** 

Washington, D.C. 

“What did the letters say?” Dr. Moran questions. 

Millie looks up, startled. 

“What?!” 

“Millie!” Dr. Moran says, laughing. “The letters you were just talking about. From Michael.” 

“Oh. They said…I don’t know. Your average, run-of-the-mill love letters, I guess.” 

“There’s no such thing as an average love letter.” 

“Read some of Michael’s and you’ll change your mind,” Millie replies, wryly. 

“Well, what was the purpose of the letters?” 

“Since when do love letters have a purpose?” 

“Generally, they serve a very important purpose- to woo the recepient,” Dr. Moran says. 

“No,” Millie answers. “Michael’s were more…pity me love letters.” 

Dr. Moran raises an uncertain eyebrow. 

“Come again?” 

“The only purpose his letters served was to make me feel guilty about the way our relationship ended. Miserable letters. If you want the condensed version, his letters said, in the simplest of terms, ‘death, death, death, guilt, death, guilt, love, guilt, death, love, guilt, guilt, love.’” 

“Though, I assume, more articulate than that.” 

Mille rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, Dr. Moran. Michael wasn’t primitive. He was just…depressingly concise.” 

“How many of those letters did he send you?” 

“I don’t know. A hundred, hundred and fifty,” Millie says. 

“Did you respond to any of them?” 

“Just one.” 

“Which one?” Dr. Moran asks. 

“The letter wherein he threatened to end his life if I didn’t respond.” 

** 

“Okay now,” Dr. Adams says. “You’ve been married for two years. Go.” 

“Two years…” The President whispers, pensively. “We were still in London. Our life was very much the same then as it was at six months of marriage. Our routines were more set in stone, and we had more friends in London than we did previously. The only thing that was different was that Abbey was having a bit of a tough time. Michael, who was still in Vietnam, had been sending her letters that…scared her, to say the least.” 

“Why did the letters scare her?” 

“Just the kinds of things he’d tell her. He was always brutally honest with her, describing, in detail, the things he was seeing. Sometimes he would even describe combat in detail. I read the letters too, and I’ll admit, they disturbed me a little as well. I wrote to him occasionally, and eventually I asked him to stop writing those things to her. I told him if he needed to vent in detal like that, he could write to me.” 

“Did he listen?” Dr. Adams inquires. 

Jed shakes his head, ruefully. 

“Michael Bennett rarely listened to anyone. I was no exception. I knew he wasn’t doing it to upset her. Abbey was the one person he trusted and valued above all people. He felt he needed to tell her. I just hated seeing what it did to her. It damn near tore her apart for him to talk like that. She was a wreck a lot of the time, worrying about him.” 

“How did you handle that?” 

“I gave her a shoulder to cry on, quite literally. What else could I hve done? I was there for her. I was a good husband,” Jed says, matter-of-factly. 

“Were you?” 

“Yes!” 

“You sound doubtful,” Dr. Adams observes. 

“Well, sure. I always wonder if I did enough for her. As a husband, I worry about that constantly. As a father too.” 

“All right. Let’s move on.” 

“Okay.” 

“How long had you been married when your wife became pregnant with your first child?” 

“About three and a half years,” Jed says. 

“Why don’t you start from there then?” 

“Fine. Our routine stayed mostly the same when Abbey was pregnant, but our lifestyle changed a lot.” 

“How did it change?” Dr. Adams asks. 

“Well, for starters, Abbey made me give up smoking for awhile. We both gave up drinking. She stopped eating almost everything she liked and started having cravings for things she’d always hated. She had me running all over creation in the middle of the night for pickles and ice cream, and peppermint tea. Oh, and scotch eggs.” 

“What are scotch eggs?” 

“They’re a British thing. They’re like hard-boiled eggs lined with cold sausage and covered in bread crumbs. It’s more appetizing than it sounds, believe me. Abbey couldn’t get enough while she was pregnant. Then, the day after Liz was born, she told me she never wanted to see another scotch egg as long as she lived. Of course, that only lasted until five years later, when she was pregnant with Ellie. But by that time, we were living in Boston, so she made me import them from England, which ate up an entire month’s salary.” 

“How else did your lifestyle change?” 

“Well, did I mention we gave up sex?” 

“You gave up se…wait a minute! You just said sex!” 

Jed grins. 

“So I did. Whadaya know.” 

“So you gave up sex?” Dr. Adams says. 

“Mmm-hmm. That wasn’t the only time either.” 

“Why did you terminate sexual activity?” 

“To tell you the truth, I’m not entirely sure.” 

“At who’s suggestion?” 

“Mine.” 


	10. Wreck of the Day 10

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 10: The Most Powerful Thing in the World 

London, England 

“It’s not love,” Abbey Bartlet says. 

“It’s not?” Dr. Hewson questions. 

“No. Absolutely not.” 

“What is it then?” 

“It’s…affection. I care for Tony. I do. He’s a wonderful man. I enjoy his company,” Abbey clarified. 

“So you don’t love him then?” 

“No.” 

“Does he know that?” Dr. Hewson asks. 

“Um…” 

“Let me ask you this. Does he love you?” 

Abbey shrugs. 

“He says he does. I don’t know if he means it.” 

“And how do you respond when he says he loves you?” 

“I…well, I smile and change the subject,” she replies. 

“That doesn’t bother him?” 

“Oh, no, it does. But what can he do about it? Tony’s an easy-going guy. He’s patient with me.” 

“Do you plan on being in love with him in the future?” Dr. Hewson asks. 

“Uh…well, not…in love, per se.” 

“Then what good is his patience?” 

“It’s…I don’t know.” 

Abbey shifts uncomfortably in her seat. This conversation is going down a road she’s not sure she’s ready to travel quite yet. 

“How do you feel about leading him on like that?” 

“Well, I don’t believe that’s what I’m doing. Tony knew going into all of this that it wasn’t going to be easy. He knew I wasn’t prepared to just fall in love with him just like that. I mean, that’s not something I take lightly. Love. I’ve been in love with only one man for nearly forty years, the only man I believe I’ve ever truly loved. That’s not something I can just leave behind. Maybe some people can do it, like Tony himself, for instance, but not me. And anyway, even if I could, it’s not something I’m eager to get into again.” 

“Why is that?” 

“I have a lot of strong feelings about love, Dr. Hewson,” Abbey says, smiling. “Being away from my husband here in London has allowed me to observe things from an outside perspective and examine things objectively. And in doing so, I’ve discovered that I am absolutely bewildered by love.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“I mean, just…think about it. Love is a fantastic, miraculous, utterly mysterious thing. And it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. No logical reasoning behind it. Here’s my theory. There are two sides to love. There’s the ‘oh, I want love, when will I find someone to love me?’ and then there’s ‘I’ve found someone, I’m in love, that’s that.’ But, in my opinion, love is not just wanting and having. There’s so much more to it. Granted, most of it doesn’t make sense, but it’s still there. 

“Ask yourself these questions. Why do we love the people we love? Why not someone else? Why am I the one who loves this person? Why does he see in me? What do I see in him? We can give endless reasons as to why we love someone, but that doesn’t explain why those reasons are true. Why do we love the things we love about them? Why do these things appeal to us, of all people? Take my marriage, for example. My husband’ll say he loves the way I run my fingers along the edge of the pages when I read. Okay. Why does that appeal to him? He has no idea. I love the way his glasses rest on the bridge of his nose when he’s irritated. Sure, fine. But why? Why do I love that about him? Why doesn’t someone else love him for that? Why me? Why him? Are you following me at all?” 

“Yes. Oh, yes. I’m just thanking God that this session is being recorded, because there’s no way I’d be able to jot all of this down,” Dr. Hewson replies. 

“It’s just…fascinating, unpredictable, and inexplicable. So many questions that cannot be answered. For thirty-eight years, I didn’t question it. Now all I have are questions. I wonder why God chose for me to be in love with him, and vice versa. The thing about Jed and me is that…we’re so different, yet so exactly the same. I know that doesn’t make much sense but I swear to God, it’s the truth.” 

“It makes sense.” 

“The most phenomenal thing about love, I think, is the whole coincidence thing. You always hear of unrequited love and all that, and most people have actually experienced it. So when you do finally find love, it’s incredible. What are the odds? What are the odds, that out of all the millions of people in the world, the one person you love loves you too? Millions of people. The odds that the person you love just happens to love you too are outrageous. And yet it happens everyday. It just astonishes me. People who love and are loved in return are so unbelievably fortunate. And yet, no matter how much you love someone, or how much they love you, you’re never completely exempt from hurting them at some point. The little things get in the way. You’d think that if you could beat the million-to-one odds of achieving mutual love, that you’d be able to avoid a fight about forgetting to take the trash out. So, in some respects, love is the most powerful thing in the universe, but even the most powerful thing in the universe isn’t immuned to stupidity and the wrath of the almighty human ego. Makes you think.” 

Dr. Hewson is lost for words. He has been a psychiatrist for thirty years, and never once has he witnessed a theory so insightful and astounding. Never once has the thought of love in the way she so clearly understood. Never once has the thought even occurred to him that love might be so complicated. People are complicated, he knows, and he always assumed this was the reason love was so often betrayed. Never has he considered love to be a force all on its own. Certainly Abbey Bartlet was an expert, as one who has experienced such incredible love, and now is living with the results of its flaws. 

“My final contribution to this topic is one last question,” Abbey says. “What is it about my husband that makes me believe I honestly could not live without him somewhere in this world? I don’t understand it. I don’t understand why something so wonderful has to be so painful.” 

** 

When you love someone - you’ll do anything  
You’ll do all the crazy things that you can’t explain  
You’ll shoot the moon - put out the sun  
When you love someone

You’ll deny the truth - believe a lie  
There’ll be times that you’ll believe you can really fly  
But your lonely nights - have just begun  
When you love someone

When you love someone - you’ll feel it deep inside  
And nothin else can ever change your mind  
When you want someone - when you need someone  
When you love someone...

When you love someone - you’ll sacrifice  
You’d give it everything you got and you won’t think twice  
You’d risk it all - no matter what may come  
When you love someone  
You’ll shoot the moon - put out the sun  
When you love someone 

“When You Love Someone,” by Bryan Adams 


	11. Wreck of the Day 11

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 11: The Broken-Hearted 

Baltimore, Maryland 

“This is my first time in therapy.” 

Ellie Bartlet shifts uncomfortably on the couch, unable to keep still. She pushes her wavy blonde hair out of her face and behind her ears. 

“Are you nervous?” Dr. Stevens asks. 

“No,” she answers, quickly. “I’m just…uncertain. I don’t know if this is going to work out.” 

“Why is that?” 

“I’m not sure therapy is right for me as of this moment. Plus, I don’t have a lot of time on my hands.” 

“Why did you come in the first place?” 

“A few reasons,” Ellie replies. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the thing with my parents.” 

“Yes.” 

“And I haven’t been able to talk to my mother. I can’t bring myself to.” 

“But you’ve spoken to your father?” Dr. Stevens questions. 

“Almost everyday, which is how I usually am with Mom.” 

“Are you upset with her?” 

“I feel like I shouldn’t be, like it’s not my place to judge. But yeah, I am upset. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but I don’t like it. I wish she would just come home.” 

“Do you feel like this is a personal attack on you?” 

“I don’t know. Sometimes. I know it’s not, but it’s hard not to think so. This is between her and Dad, I realize that. It has nothing to do with me. But it’s affecting my family in a big way, and I can’t help but feel betrayed. It’s horrible, I know.” 

“It’s not horrible,” Dr. Stevens says. “It’s perfectly normal to feel that way.” 

“Yeah. I guess. I mean…she broke my dad’s heart, but she broke mine too! I don’t think she understands that. There’s more to this whole situation than just her and Dad. And Zoey’s not much help.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Sometimes I think Zoey supports the relationship between my mother and Anthony Prescott. You know, just because she’s dating his son. So I feel like Zoey’s betraying me too. Is that selfish? I’m making it about me. That’s selfish.” 

Dr. Stevens shakes her head. 

“No, Ellie. It’s not selfish.” 

“Do you think I should talk to her?” Ellie asks. 

“I think you should talk to her when you’re ready. Right now, you obviously aren’t. Wait awhile. Keep coming to see me and you’ll progress much faster, and more thoroughly.” 

“Is that just your wallet talking?” 

“No,” Dr. Stevens laughs. “I truly think it would do you good. You don’t have to come every day, and you probably won’t still be coming a year from now. But as it is, I think it would be in your best interest.” 

“You think so?” 

“I do.” 

“Well, okay. I’ll take your word for it.” 

** 

Washington, D,C. 

“I have this fear,” Jed Bartlet confesses. 

“Go on,” Dr. Adams coaxes. 

“It’s like a recurring nightmare. It plagues me every night, in one form or another. Sometimes the details change, but the idea is the same.” 

“What happens?” 

“Well…I’m dead.” 

“You’re dead?” 

“Yes,” Jed says. “I keep having these visions of me dead. No particular cause of death, I’m just dead. I could be the MS, or it could be some freak accident. Anyway, that’s not important. I’m dead and it doesn’t much matter to anyone.” 

“Not anyone?!” 

“Nope. Not a one. And Abbey finds out about it on the morning news. Nobody even thought to tell her, because they didn’t think she’d care. She shrugs it off, marries Tony Prescott, buys a house in Switzerland like she’s always wanted to, and invites all our children and grandchildren for a party. To celebrate my death, most likely.” 

“That’s interseting,” Dr. Adams comments. “Why do you think that is?” 

“I have no idea. Why do you think I’m sharing it with you?” 

“Do you think that’s how Abbey would react upon hearing of your death?” 

“She better not!” Jed exclaims, with surprising intensity. “You’d think thirty-eight years with a person would…” 

“Would what?” 

“I don’t know. It’s just…the thing that gets me about the dream is, I die without ever seeing her again, without having seen her for months! I don’t get to tell her anything, speak my last words to her, none of it. I die not knowing whether or not she still loves me. And that’s worse than dying.” 

Dr. Adams suppresses the urge to respond when he notices a stray tear slide down his patient’s cheek. The President of the United States’ cheek. He is astonished. 

“Sir?” 

“I’m fine,” Jed says, struggling to regain his composure. 

“Are you?” 

“Yeah. Just give me a minute.” 

“Okay.” 

“If I died, you know…she damn well better have a broken heart,” Jed states, in a whisper. 

“What was that, sir?” 

“I said she better have a broken heart when I die.” 

“You don’t think she will?” Dr. Adams asks. 

“I think she needs to get her ass back here so I can find out, that’s what I think.” 

** 

London, England 

“You know what I did last night?” Abbey asks, giggling like a schoolgirl. 

“What?” Dr. Hewson smiles back at her. 

“I went to a drive-in.” 

“Really.” 

“Tony took me to this drive-in…Lord, I don’t even know where it was. Do you know how long its been since I’ve been to a drive-in? Forty years!” 

“What did you see?” Dr. Hewson asks. 

Abbey pauses for a moment, in deep thought. 

“I honestly can’t remember! Isn’t that crazy? I can’t remember.” 

Dr. Hewson laughs. 

“Most people don’t remember what they saw at a drive-in. I believe that’s the entire point behind the premise.” 

“Could be.” 

Startled, Abbey flinches when she feels her purse begin to vibrate beside her. Dr. Hewson watches with interest as she grabs the purse and frantically searches the insides. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, pulling out her cell phone. “It’s my sister. I’ll just be one second.” 

Dr. Hewson places his notepad and pen on the table beside him and folds his hands in his lap. Abbey flips her phone open and presses it to her ear. 

“Julia, what’s going on? What? What is it? Julia, honey, talk to me please. Tell me why you’re crying! Dad? What about Dad? Julia! What. He…no. No. He…can’t. I…oh, my God.” 

Before she has a chance to build up a wall of protection, the tears begin to fall at a rapid. Dr. Hewson sits up, observing her intently. 

“I can’t…I don’t…oh, God. Oh, no. Okay, okay. All right. Yeah. Yes. Okay. Love you too. Bye.” 

Abbey flips the cell phone shut and drops it back into her purse, then looks up at Dr. Hewson vulnerably. 

“Uh…my father died this morning. Heart attack. And I…I have to go back home.” 


	12. Wreck of the Day 12

 

**Wreck of the Day**

**by:** Skye 

**Character(s):** Abbey Bartlet  
**Pairing(s):** Jed/Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Part two of the Catalyst series, follows A Lesson in Vengeance. The Bartlets explore their relationship through a series of therapy sessions.  
**Written:** 2005-10-31  


* * *

Part 12: The Funeral 

Washington, D.C. 

“Abbey’s father passed away yesterday,” Jed Bartlet announces, ruefully. “Heart attack.” 

“Oh. I’m very sorry to hear that,” Dr. Adams says, genuinely. 

“Thank you. Nick Bennett was an incredible man. He’ll be sorely missed. Liz is beside herself.” 

“Just Liz?” 

“Liz was very close to her grandfather. Zoey and Ellie were too, but Liz always had a special bond with him, like Abbey did. He supported her all the way through her pregnancy with Annie, when she was sixteen. Never judged her or lectured her. I’m telling you, Doc, he was a fantastic guy. You’d have liked him. Everyone did. Phenomenal lawyer, too. I can’t even imagine how Abbey’s taking this.” 

“She was close to him?” 

“Are you kidding? They worshipped each other. She’s going through hell right now, I guarantee it. Wish I could be there with her.” 

“Will you be attending the funeral?” Dr. Adams questions. 

“She’ll be there.” 

“That’s a given, yes.” 

“You think I should go anyway?” Jed asks, uncertainly. 

“Were you close with Nick Bennett?” 

“Relatively, as close as a son-in-law could be to his father-in-law.” 

“Do you want to pay your respects?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t go,” Dr. Adams says. 

“You don’t think that’s going to cause Abbey unwanted, and unneeded I might add, stress and angst?” 

“On the contrary, I think she’ll appreciate your comfort and concern, all problems aside.” 

“Well, I would like to be there for the girls after all…” 

Dr. Adams smiles. 

“I think you should. This visit could be very beneficial for you, and for Abbey.” 

“Zoey says they’re coming home tomorrow. To Manchester, that is. The funeral’s on Monday, in Boston.” 

“Should I reschedule Monday’s session for another day then?” Dr. Adams asks. 

Jed contemplates for a moment, considering the outcome and consequences of the sitaution. He grins at Dr. Adams proudly. 

“Yeah.” 

** 

London, England 

Even if he closes his eyes, Dr. Hewson would still be able to feel her presence in the room. She is wrapped in complexities and exudes idiosyncrasies. She is a woman of many faces. The sad, the broken, the content, the confused, the distressed, the hopeful, the hopeless. Dr. Hewson cannot always keep them all straight, though he struggles to. 

She sits still and uneasy, her eyes darting around the room restlessly. She has so much to say, but so little motivation to actually say it. She hopes her facial expressions and mannerisms will convey all she wants to verbally communicate. Judging by the appearance of Dr. Hewson’s glazed-over eyes, she has not been successful in doing so. 

“I suppose I should at least tell you that this is our last session,” Abbey Bartlet announces, without looking directly at her psychiatrist. 

Dr. Hewson nods; it was not unexpected. 

“I’m leaving for the States tomorrow evening.” 

“Will Zoey be returning with you?” 

“Yeah. And not just her,” she replies, a bit apprehensively. 

“Who else?” 

“Tony and Oliver.” 

Dr. Hewson cannot figure out why he is so astonished by this announcement. Abbey has been making incredible progress, yes, but she isn’t ready to run back into her husband’s arms just yet. That being said, he thinks, she has to realize what an enormous scandal this will be. 

“I see. At who’s suggestion?” 

“Well, Zoey insists on bringing Oliver, and that’s understandable. And Tony insists on being brought.” 

“Is that what you want?” 

Abbey shrugs dismissively. 

“I have no thoughts on it either way.” 

He doesn’t believe that for a second, but he’s in no position to dispute her presently. 

“When is the funeral?” 

“Monday, in Boston.” 

“Where will you be staying?” He asks. 

“The farm, I guess. I would stay with my sister in Boston, but with Oliver and Tony…I’m not sure that would be such a great idea. Though, I do feel a bit strange going back to the farm.” 

“Why is that?” 

“I mean, it’s my home, but…technically, it belongs to Jed. It’s been in his family for I don’t know how long. We used to keep an apartment in Boston, but we sold it when the campaign first started. We didn’t think we’d really need it anymore. Go figure.” 

“It’s not unnatural to feel that way. You’ll be making many adjustments when you return home, especially now that you’re bringing Tony and Oliver along with you.” 

“Do you think it’s in poor taste to bring them?” 

“Not in the general sense, no. I think that’s going to vary based on the individual,” Dr. Hewson answers. 

“What does the individual in you think about it?” 

“I don’t think it’s in poor taste. I think it’s going to be challenge. If you’re prepared to take the heat for bringing them, it’ll be easier.” 

“It’s going to be a scandal,” she says, softly. 

“Yes, it is.” 

“It’s already a scandal.” 

“To say the least,” Dr. Hewson agrees. 

“The very least.” 

“Are you comfortable with that?” 

“Being a scandal?” Abbey asks. 

“More or less.” 

“I’m not sure comfortable is the right word. I’ve reconciled myself to the idea, I’m used to it. But it’s not something I take delight in, no.” 

“Okay. Here’s some food for thought,” Dr. Hewson says. “Have you considered what would happen if your husband were to show up at your father’s funeral?” 

Dr. Hewson notices his patient’s eyes widen considerably as she absorbs the notion. 

“I’m going to assume you hadn’t thought of it before.” 

“No,” Abbey replies, quietly, contemplatively. “But now that you mention it, there’s a very distinct possibility that will happen.” 

“Was your husband close with your father?” 

“Well, they weren’t Thelma and Louise jump-off-a-cliff-together close, but they certainly got along well.” 

“How do you think you would react if he attended the funeral?” Dr. Hewson questions. 

“I…” She hesitates. “Honestly, I have no idea. I can’t even begin to imagine…” 

“That’s okay. It’s just something to think about.” 

“Listen, Dr. Hewson, I just want to thank you for your help this past month or so. Your hard work has not gone unnoticed. Really, I’m incredibly grateful.” 

“It’s my pleasure, Abbey,” Dr. Hewson replies, smiling warmly. “I only hope that I helped.” 

“Oh, you did. You have no idea how much.” 

“Do you feel like you’ve made progress?” 

“More progress than I would have made without you.” 

“Well, that’s something then.” 

** 

THE END 


End file.
